


Wine-Stained Cynics

by thejerseyturnpike



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drunk Grantaire, M/M, Slash, sort of one sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejerseyturnpike/pseuds/thejerseyturnpike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras takes care of a drunk Grantaire after snapping at him; professions of love ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wine-Stained Cynics

The amis had been busily working for the last few days. There had been several fights breaking out amongst the lower classes, squabbling for bread and finances, and the boys were trying to not only restore peace, but also to use the anger to rally the people in those neighborhoods to their cause. Enjolras had several large maps of the streets of Paris spread out on the table in front of him, and was busy discussing with Courfeyrac their strategies.

“If you go to Rue de Luxembourg and hit all the side streets there, there are a number of families that just lost their job when the factory shut down a few blocks over from there. I bet you can rally them to our cause,” Enjolras indicated on the map the region he wanted Courfeyrac to explore, “Joly, I want you to go all the way out to Rue du Provence. And Grantaire, if you’re feeling up to the task, I have something I’d like you to do, if you can sober up enough to do it,” there was an edge to his voice; Grantaire was regarding him through a drunk haze at the other end of the round table, wine bottle raised to his lips.

“And what would be the point of that, my fearless leader? I fear you will not be able to rally the people to your cause.”

Enjolras sighed and rolled his eyes at Grantaire; he had not been wanting an argument this night, “and why is that?”

“No matter what you do, the people are too afraid of our king to rise up and support your cause. No matter what they will shut themselves in our homes and watch the revolution pass them by.”

“Have faith, Grantaire. The people are tired under toiling under the king’s tyranny. We will have their support.”

“We will have our blood on the cobblestones,” Grantaire set his bottle down on the table.

“I don’t take kindly to your cynicism, Grantaire,” Enjolras’ voice was a warning, he was treading on dangerous ground.

“I don’t see the point in us all losing our lives for a cause that the people care not for!” Grantaire gestured with his arm and knocked the wine bottle; it fell on the table and wine spilled out, spreading down the streets of Paris.

“Grantaire, if you’re going to be this belligerent, just go home,” Enjolras half shouted.

Grantaire looked at him stonily, then nodded, his jaw tight.

“Fine,” he rose and left the table with as much dignity as he could muster for as drunk as he was.

Grantaire crossed the room, wobbling a bit, and knocked into the doorframe as he attempted to leave. He paused for a moment, hoping no one had seen him stumble, before leaving the Musain.

The silence was uncomfortable as Courfeyrac worked to clean up the spilled wine and save the damaged maps. Enjolras sat and scrubbed his face with his hands, letting out a sigh.

“These will be fine, we can save them yet. They’ll just be a little red,” Courfeyrac smiled at Enjolras and peeled the maps off the sticky table and walked away to hang them out the window.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Joly commented after a moment, leaning back in his chair at the next table.

“I don’t know why he insists on pestering us when we’re trying to do business if he doesn’t care about the cause at all.”

“Perhaps he cares more than you think,” Joly mused, taking a drink from his glass, “he certainly cares about something other than the wine to keep him coming back. There are plenty of bars in Paris. Why would he come to this one of he didn’t care at all?” Joly righted his chair and finished his drink, “you should give him more credit. He cares so much what you think.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Conceding that Joly was probably right, he stood and pulled on his coat, hoping that Grantaire hadn’t gotten too far in his drunken stupor wandering the wrong way.

He hadn’t gotten too far; Enjolras found him stumbling down the road maybe twenty yards ahead of him. As Enjolras watched, Grantaire swayed dangerously before hitting the side of a building and slumping against it. Enjolras jogged the few paces between them and put his hand under Grantaire’s elbow, helping him lift himself up.

Grantaire looked around to see who was helping him, and gave a bewildered look when he found his Apollo standing beside him. He tugged his elbow away.

“I’m fine,” he garbled, and continued to stumble down the road. Enjolras followed him, bending under his arm and lifting him to support some of Grantaire’s weight and to guide him better.

“No you’re not. Now I’m helping you home.”

Grantaire grumbled something about not needing charity and he could make it on his own, but Enjolras ignored him and tugged him towards him to steady his walk.

They arrived at Grantaire’s apartment, and they paused as he fumbled in his pockets for his keys. His free hand that was not slung over Enjolras’ shook as he groped about, and Enjolras, impatient with waiting, batted his hand aside and commenced the search himself.

“What… what are you doing?’ Grantaire stammered, flustered at the foreign hands touching his body.

“Your search was taking too long, so I’m doing it myself. Hands shaking like yours are, you probably wouldn’t be able to fit the key to the lock,” Enjolras grumbled. He found the keys and unlocked the door, tugging Grantaire inside.

Getting him up the stairs was more difficult than it should have been; once inside Grantaire resumed his protestations that he did not need help getting home. Enjolras argued that he didn’t want Grantaire passing out in the hall and feeling responsible.

Once inside his apartment, Grantaire broke away and stumbled to his bed, crashing down on it with his legs dangling off the side. He sighed heavily and looked as if he had every intention of sleeping halfway on his bed with his clothes still on. Enjolras sighed, why did he have to be so damned compassionate, and followed him. He set to work undoing the laces on Grantaire’s boots, and was halfway through tugging the first one off when Grantaire sat up.

“What are you doing?” he looked incredulous.

“Helping you into bed,” Enjolras said without looking up, tugging off the boot and setting it beside the wall.

“Apollo follows me home and now he’s undressing me. I must have died and gone to Olympus to be blessed by the gods,” Grantaire murmered, lying back down on the bed.

“I’m no god, please stop calling me one,” Enjolras spat.

“You know what your problem is? Grantaire opened one eye lazily and looked at Enjolras from his one half-lidded eye. He paused, smirking, until Enjolras looked up at him before he continued, “You know what your problem is Apollo? You don’t regard yourself as a god, but you look down with such disdain upon this poor sinning mortal. I don’t share your ideals, is that such a crime? When you die you’ll go to live on Olympus with the rest of the gods, and I will be sent down the river Styx to dwell with the rest of the mortals for eternity.”

“I’m no god,” Enjolras repeated, “and I don’t look down on you with distain.”

“You do. You think I’m a good-for-nothing drunk who doesn’t believe in anything, least of all your precious revolution which you hold dearer to you than your own life. Well I’ll tell you this Apollo, I do believe in something,” Grantaire sat up and eyed Enjolras seriously. Enjolras finished removing his other shoe and placed it by the first. He looked up at Grantaire.

“What’s that?” Enjolras swallowed hard, returning Grantaire’s gaze.

“You.”

Grantaire reached up and grasped Enjolras by the back of the neck and pulled him toward him. He kissed him firmly, almost desperately, perhaps thinking it would be his only opportunity to do so. But shockingly, amazingly, Enjolras was leaning into him, putting a hand on the bed beside Grantaire to support his weight and the other hand on Grantaire’s hip. Grantaire, both excited and unsure about Enjolras’ actions, parted his lips slightly and darted his tongue out to lick Enjolras’ bottom lip. Enjolras parted his lips and Grantaire slipped his tongue inside his mouth, pulling him closer, winding his hands slightly into the golden hair of his god. Enjolras stroked Grantaire’s hip with his thumb, leaning in a little more to the kiss. Grantaire let out a small groan from the back of his throat. Enjolras kissed him for a moment more before pulling away, but he kept his hand on the bed next to the other man, and Grantaire kept his hand on the back of Enjolras’ neck.

“You taste of brandy,” Enjolras smirked.

“The drawbacks of kissing a wretched drunk I suppose,” Grantaire let his hand drop from Enjolras’ neck, but rested it on the hand that was still on the mattress beside him.

“You’re not wretched,” Enjolras commented, “and I don’t detest you, regardless of what you might think. I just wish you didn’t hold what I believe in with such contempt.”

“I tend to not like most things which threaten to take away what I care for,” Grantaire looked away, “I don’t much care for the idea of your revolution taking your life.”

“To die for France would be the greatest of honors,” he turned his hand over and squeezed Grantaire’s, but he pulled away, replacing the hand back on Enjolras’ neck.

“I must confess something then,” he paused, then looked at him, “I am in love with you, Enjolras. I have been since I first heard you speak. I may not believe in the revolution, but I believe in you, and I am in love with you.”

Enjolras took a deep breath, “I know.”

“You… you know?”

“I see how you look at me when I am speaking. You would not spend so much time in our company discussing a cause you hate if you didn’t, someone recently pointed out to me. I had suspected for a while, but was not certain until tonight. But I am promised to France. She is my lady, and I will defend her and fight for her until I die, even if that fight is what takes me from this world. I can never have a relationship where the person I am with must always come second. It is not fair.”

Grantaire nodded, “I had expected as much. I did not expect anything at all, actually. I just could not keep it a secret any longer.”

Enjolras nodded and stood, pulling away from Grantaire. His hand hung in the air for a second before it registered that it was no longer wrapped in the hair of his golden god, and he replaced it beside him on the bed.

“I should go,” Enjolras murmered, “and you should drink some water and get to sleep; you’ll have a terrible hangover tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Grantaire said, reaching out but grabbing onto nothing, “stay.”

“What?”

“Stay. I know you said… nothing would happen… France and all that… but I don’t want to sleep alone. Not tonight. Stay,” Grantaire’s voice trailed away, loosing confidence in the proposal as he continued.

Enjolras halted, then, unsure about what made him agree, nodded, “Alright.”

“Really?” Grantaire did not bother to hide the surprise, or pleasure, in his voice.

“Yes. Take off your coat.”

Grantaire wriggled out of his extra clothes and tossed them haphazardly onto the floor as Enjolras carefully removed his boots, jacket, vest, and trousers, and draped them carefully over the desk chair. He climbed into bed beside Grantaire, who threw his arm over his friend and cuddled up beside him, and was soon snoring in his ear.

-

Grantaire woke when the sun had begun streaming in through the window. He looked around the room in a bleary haze; he was still drunk from the night before. He felt warmth next to him; he rolled over to see Enjolras was still sleeping beside him. He smiled; though he could not have his golden god, not forever, he delighted to see him in his bed. Typically he looked so impassioned, so determined and full of focus when he was delivering his beautiful and eloquent speeches, or furiously scratching out one until the small hours of the morning when Grantaire was sitting next to him drinking. It was a change to see his Apollo looking so calm with his gold hair fanned around him on the pillow. He decided he liked this view of his god, and he watched him breathe in and out, watched his eyelids flicker in a dream until sleep took him once again.

-

The next time Grantaire woke his head was splitting, and the sun appeared to be high in the sky. How long had he slept? The night previous came back to him in bits, and he wasn’t sure how much he had made up and how much he was remembering. Remembering… he flung his arm out to the side and felt around on the bed, not wanting to open his eyes, both because of how the light pained it, and because he did not wish to see the other side of the bed empty.

Enjolras had gone. There was no trace that his golden god had been there, so much so that Grantaire wondered if it had only been a dream. He touched his lips.

“What a dream,” he murmured to himself, and crawled out of bed, picking his clothes off the floor to dress himself. He stumbled around looking for his boots; they were not underneath the rest of his clothes as they normally were. He smiled to himself as he picked up his boots from where they were neatly lined against the wall.


End file.
